


Wanna Be Your Dog- Chew Toy

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Deep Cover (1992)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics wrt BDSM, Dubious Morality, M/M, Master/Pet, Puppy Play, Repression, dubious everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 09:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16385819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: John didn't kill him when he could have. For whatever reason, after everything, John wants to keep him around. All David has to do is be a good boy, and everything will be just fine...Mostly.Maybe.





	Wanna Be Your Dog- Chew Toy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/gifts), [mitzvahmelting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/gifts).



    It’s weird, he knows that. It’s some freaky shit. He _knows_ that. Normal people don’t do this, or whatever. Obviously normal people don’t do this, but he and John have gone way beyond normal. And this is better than it could be.

 

    There’s a lot of things it could be. Because he owes John, he owes him for not just putting him down like a dog, owes him for deciding keeping him around could be worth it, and for everything… He owes him for keeping him alive and safe and out of trouble, because it could be prison or a body bag.

 

    It could be… it could be John saying ‘you owe me this’ and David, he wouldn’t have a choice, would he? It could be John holding him down, doing… doing things to him. John could do things to him, but he doesn’t. And he waits for it sometimes, he waits for it, he waits for it, but John never does those things. He grabs him sometimes, shoves him, slapped him once when he was getting hysterical, he was getting hysterical, he doesn’t hold that one against him, but he… he grabs him, he moves him where he wants him to go sometimes, he’s taken his clothes off before and he’d been sure he knew what that meant, what was coming, but all John did was put him in the shower then, and so now when it happens David barely tenses.

 

    John touches him, yeah. He touches him everywhere sometimes, but that’s… That’s in the tub, and that’s part of this, and it’s not to get off, and he doesn’t make David touch him anywhere or do things for him, and David…

 

    If they’re doing all this kinky shit, shouldn’t John want that from him? A fucking handjob at least? But he doesn’t.

 

    Bathtime is part of it. The collar, the crate. And the thing is, David needs it, he fucking does, he’d go nuts if he had to be a person all the time, if he had to think about this shit, if he had to worry about things.

 

    He worries about too much. Shit John tells him he doesn’t need to worry about anymore.

 

    At some point, John tells him, it will be safe. Life will go back to normal. Until then, it’s better this way.

 

    David doesn’t want normal. Not now. He’s not sure what he’d do with it. He just wants this, clothes stripped off and collar put on, and the chance of John calling him a good boy if he just does what he’s told.

 

    The crate, the blanket, the spot where he can just curl up and the door’s locked, and he’s safe here because he doesn’t have to _think_. John will do the thinking, John will… John will handle things. He’ll handle David.

 

    He’s in the crate when John comes home, can’t lock himself in it. If John’s only running out for a minute, he’ll lock him in the crate while he’s gone, but otherwise he leaves it open, leaves David to be able to get out to stretch his legs after a couple hours, or to use the bathroom like a person, or to feed himself, instead of just leaving a bowl of something sitting in the crate.

 

    Which he’s done. Left a bowl of dry cereal or some shit in the corner of the crate, a bowl of water, left him there a couple hours. And it was humiliating the first time, everything’s humiliating the first time, but there’s something about it he needs, like he’s never needed anything.

 

    “Have you been a good boy?” John asks, and David looks up at him, eyes wide.

 

    It’s not every day he’s in the crate waiting-- it’s almost never, actually, unless John made him his dog before leaving and expected him to be that way when he got back. Once, when he’d panicked, but usually John comes back, John takes his clothes, John gives him the collar.

 

    John has to give him the collar. David isn’t allowed to do that for himself, it’s one of those things only John can give, and when he whistles for him, David crawls out of the crate, doesn’t rise up past being there on his knees.

 

    But John likes this. There are things David has to wait for him for, but the approval radiating off of him for David taking the initiative… He pets at his hair a moment before locking the collar into place around his neck, pats his cheek.

 

    “Good boy.” He smiles, and it’s a rare, warm smile, one that says ‘you did right and I didn’t even have to tell you’, a step beyond mere ‘you didn’t fuck it up’.

 

    He doesn’t know when he started living for that look. It was before they started the freaky shit. The only difference is now he has a way to earn it, now he has a way to get John’s approval, John’s…

 

    Well, whatever. Whatever it is he wants, he has a way to earn it now, and it’s really so easy. Once he gets past the humiliation, being a dog is the easiest fucking thing he’s ever done.

 

    There’s something in a brown paper bag sticking out of John’s jacket pocket, but David doesn’t ask. He notices, but dogs don’t talk, and if it’s important John will tell him.

 

    John spots him looking, jerks his head back towards the crate. “Oh, you want a treat, boy? You want what I got for you? In your crate. You be good and you’ll get it.”

 

    David returns to his crate, what else could he do? Settles in on his fleece blanket and waits patiently, and John locks him in, goes to the kitchen, briefly. Comes back with zip ties sticking out of the pocket alongside whatever’s in the paper bag, which…

 

    Dogs don’t worry about that, either. Any distant anxieties are human David’s problem, he’s not thinking about what the zip ties are for now.

 

    He also has an oatmeal cookie in hand, snaps it in half and feeds David through the bars, one half and then the other, laughs at him. He laughs at David a lot, at the dog things, it bothered him at first. It doesn’t now. It’s not cruel, always-- it bothers him when it is, sometimes, and sometimes he’s too sunk into it, he’s a dog and he doesn’t care. If John can push him past the place where his dignity even matters, then he can laugh at whatever he wants. But David was ready for this before John ever got home, before John ever asked it of him. A little laughing isn’t enough to break him out of this place. He licks John’s fingers, and the first time he’d done that, John had pulled away, had made a face, had made David feel weird for getting too far into it. He’d stewed over it for a day and then John had fed him something out of his hand again, grabbed the back of his head and encouraged him to do it again, left David feeling confused, but grateful.

 

    Everything John does leaves him feeling that way, off-kilter. Like he’s not sure what the right answer is, but if he could find it, everything would be okay. But he’s beginning to learn which things are constant, what he can definitely do to be good, and beyond that it’s just doing whatever John tells him to do. And now, John allows him to lick his fingers, calls him a good boy, even, and that’s…

 

    He’s not even thinking about the zip ties.

 

    He’s thinking about them again when John brings out the paper bag, when he brings out what’s inside it, and that snaps David right the _fuck_ out of the headspace he’d gotten himself into.

 

    “What the _fuck_ , John, what the _shit_?” He scrambles back, hits the door of the crate, locked, of course now it’s locked.

 

    “Dogs don’t talk, David. Thought you wanted to be a good boy for me. You were so eager when I got back…”

 

    “What the fuck is that for, then?” He demands, pointing a shaking finger at the… at _it_. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about why John brought it or where it’s going, and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to picture where the zip ties come into things, but that’s exactly what he’s picturing.

 

    Is that it? John doesn’t want him, can’t bring himself to do it, but he wants it done? Going to get David’s wrists and ankles secured and shove that fucking thing…

 

    It’s _big_. It’s thick, and when John waves it, it wobbles, a little, and the shape of it is… it’s obscenely realistic, there’s fucking veins on it and everything. It has _balls_.

 

    “This?” John laughs again, and this time he cringes at it. He’s too far shaken out of dog-hood not to cringe at it. “Oh, this is just a little treat-- though I have to say, you’re not being a very good boy.”

 

    “This isn’t fucking funny. Why would I want-- why would you think--”

 

    “Why do I think you want a big, fat, cock in your mouth? Gee, I don’t know, maybe it’s the way you’re always looking at mine.”

 

    “I don’t-- I’m not--”

 

    “Yeah, I know all about what you’re not.” John snorts, grabbing the zip ties. David balls himself up, tries to pull in, as if there was anywhere he couldn’t be reached, but John doesn’t reach for him at all. He just uses them to affix the, the thing, attach it to the crate, jutting obscenely in over the spot where John sometimes puts a bowl with some food, or water. Giant fucking balls stuck on the outside.

 

    He unballs himself a little, when John runs out of zip ties, can’t stop staring at the shiny black cockhead aiming right at him.

 

    “What the hell?” He whines, pressing back against the far end of the crate.

 

    “That’s your new chew toy. And dogs don’t talk. So if you want to be a good boy, you’ll settle down in there. And I’ll let you out when it’s time for dinner.”

 

    “This isn’t fucking funny.” David grumbles, but he’s in the crate, the door’s locked, and he’s not happy about this thing staring him in the face but John isn’t making him touch it, it’s just there. He could ignore it.

 

    John leaves the crate, just long enough to grab the afghan off the back of the couch, to drape it over the crate, so that the rest of the place is closed off to David, so that he can’t even look at anything that isn’t the fucking fake cock, the couch beyond.

 

    John drops down onto the couch, doesn’t even look back at the crate, but John is the only thing to look at now, it’s not like David wants to, but he can’t, he can’t look at the thing strapped to the crate, which is a hell of a lot closer to his face than John, when he unzips his pants and pulls his own cock out.

 

   He doesn’t even _look_ , how he can accuse David of watching him, of staring at him, when he’s not even looking at him to know… He doesn’t even look once. And it’s not like David could see much from here, it’s not like he’s looking at it, there’s nowhere else _to_ look, with a blanket over the crate, so how John could think he was watching because he liked to, because he wanted… something.

 

   He sure does take his time with it, though. Slow steady strokes, and then he takes his hand away, leaves his cock standing tall waiting for the attention as he spits into his palm. Another few slow, steady strokes… He stretches, settles, rubs his palm in circles over the head of his cock, barely any pressure, just teasing himself, and David isn’t, he isn’t thinking about touching him, isn’t thinking about how good a job he’d do if John made him.

 

   He doesn’t _want_ John to make him, he’s been afraid of it and he’s been relieved it hasn’t happened, he doesn’t sit around wanting it. He doesn’t think about this. He doesn’t think about what it would be like to have John’s hand wrap around the back of his head and just, and _hold_ him in place, and ease it on him, push past his lips, the weight of it hot on his tongue, he… he doesn’t sit around thinking about that. He doesn’t imagine what it would be like, or… or want it.

 

   He doesn’t, it’s ridiculous of John to assert otherwise, that David wants this, that David looks at him. What else is there to look at now? That’s all, it’s not, it isn’t personal. John is the one who blocked off everything else he could look at and then took his cock out, John’s the one who wants him to look. John’s the one who set this all up so he wouldn’t have anywhere else _to_ look, and then he’ll tease him for it later, well he can’t put this on David when he set it all up.

 

   So… does that mean he _should_ look, is he supposed to? Is that what John _wants_?

 

   He watches. Not because he wants to. But because there’s nothing else, and because maybe he’s meant to, and anyway, what choice does he have? He watches as John toys with himself, teases himself, as his head tilts back and he slides down a little in his seat with a low groan David can barely hear from where he is.

 

  He can feel the heat pooling in him and the tightness, everything in him centering on his own cock, sympathetically heavy between his legs.

 

   And that’s all it is, it’s not, he isn’t aroused just from watching, what… what kind of guy would that make him if he was? If it wasn’t just… well how else is he supposed to react? What else is he supposed to think about? The idea is just out there now, it’s only natural if he’s thinking about masturbation when John’s sitting there right now jacking off without a care in the world. So he’s hard, so it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean he wants… He’s just, sex is on his mind, the idea of touching himself, and if he shifts just so he brushes up against the cushion below him, but that’s not on purpose, that’s not, none of this means anything, it doesn’t mean...

 

   It doesn’t mean he wants John to fuck his mouth, it doesn’t mean he wants…

 

   John stops, looking over to him, and David looks down.

 

   “You watching?”

 

   David keeps his mouth shut. Dogs don’t talk.

 

   “See, that’s why I got you your chew toy, so you’d have… something to keep you busy.”

 

   He glances up. John’s sitting there, his hand still loose around his cock. And he’s so hard, he’s glistening, and David can just imagine, not that he means to imagine, not that he likes imagining it. Not that he wants any of this, that he’s thinking of it, not…

 

   He jerks back, stunned, when his tongue hits the toy strapped to the cage. He’d been licking his lips, hadn’t realized it was so close, hadn’t intended, of course he hadn’t intended, he would never…

 

   “Good boy.” John says, and there’s… there’s something in his voice that cuts right through everything else.

 

   David shakes his head, but John just looks at him, hand around his cock, expectant look on his face, and he wants to do the right thing, he needs John to be happy with him. If John isn’t happy with him, then, well, what’s the point? What would even happen to him now if John didn’t want to protect him? He’d be six kinds of fucked, and he knows what would happen in prison. That makes seven kinds of fucked.

 

   He watches him carefully, leans forward, his mouth opening. It isn’t real, it’s not like it’s real, so it doesn’t matter. He can do this, if that’s the thing, if that’s…

 

   It isn’t even hard, really. The shame swirls up in him, but the heat thrums through him, too, and he closes his eyes and takes as much as he can, feels the way his jaw stretches to take it, the strange taste of it, how solid it is… how it feels to let it slide in and out of his mouth with the bobbing of his head and when he opens his eyes again John is there at the crate. John is watching him so intently, his hand moving in time with David on the toy.

 

   He reaches down, fingertips slipping between the bars to brush at David’s hair, and so David takes the toy deeper, puts himself closer to the bars, to that touch.

 

   “Good puppy, you like your toy?” John asks, and his voice is low, and he has one hand in David’s hair and the other around his cock and David rolls his hips as he sucks, his own dragging against the cushion in his crate. He moans around the thing, and John laughs.

 

   He wants to bristle at it, wants to say he didn’t want this, doesn’t like this, but it feels… It isn’t real, it’s not like it’s someone’s cock in his mouth, it isn’t sex, he’s just sucking on something and it’s, okay, it’s soothing, okay, it feels nice. He doesn’t… he doesn’t want to suck some guy’s cock just because this is okay. This isn’t about that, whatever it looks like, it’s got nothing to do with how hard he is, it’s got nothing to do with, none of it has anything to do with anything.

 

   And it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, because John is touching him, John is telling him he’s good, not just a good boy, not just because he’s doing the right thing, but ‘good puppy’, and he never, he doesn’t say that unless he’s really happy with David, unless he means it, and he touches his hair and he urges him on, and it doesn’t have anything to do with anything. Sucking on the thing feels good, but the arousal, that’s just… that happened, and it’s, it feels good just because he’s rubbing up against the cushion, that has nothing to do with anything else, and he wants John to be happy with him of course he wants that, and the saliva is dripping down his chin as he takes the thing in as far as he can, eager for praise, aching for praise, he closes his eyes and focuses on the feel of everything and the sound of John’s voice as he tells him he’s good, he tells him he’s good, and then, fuck, _fuck_ , the little grunt out of John and he _feels_ it. John comes and it hits him right in the face and he doesn’t, he wasn’t hoping for it, he’s _humiliated_ by it, it’s _humiliating_ , he can’t even complain around the fucking fake cock rammed down his throat, and he comes, he comes so _hard_ , hips rolling down against the cushion, when had he gotten like this, how had he…

 

    He pulls off the toy, panting, face dripping, his own saliva, John’s come, _John’s come_ , it’s on his cheek and it’s still warm, he can _feel_ it…

 

    “Well… look at you.” John says, and David can’t meet his eyes, not now. What… what has he even done? He hunches in on himself, hears the crate door unlock and swing open, John whistling to him. “Come on out here. Messy boy… you need a bath before dinner.”

 

    He comes out on his hands and knees-- all he really can do, and John hooks a finger through the loop on his collar, tags jangling. He can’t stand and walk, with John holding on, keeping him down there, has to keep down on the floor the whole way, the floors hard under his knees, but it’s easier, he can keep his head down and crawl and there’s no risk of meeting John’s eyes. Like this! And John would, he’d think David _liked_ it, that he liked it like that, that it was… that it was sexual, the thing with the toy, that it was connected. He was going to think… he was going to think…

 

    “Such a mess, such a filthy boy, come on. Hop in the tub, be a good boy.” John says, lets go of the collar to allow him to climb in. “That’s right, good boy… you want to behave for me, don’t you. Oh, he doesn’t mean to be filthy, does he?”

 

     And he, he uses the damn voice, like he’s actually talking to a dog, which… David loves it, he hates it, he doesn’t know how he feels about it. He used to be right there in that mindset and then the toy, the fucking ‘chew toy’, like a bucket of cold water thrown in his face, like a… He just wants to be John’s dog and not think about whether or not it’s humiliating. It _is_ humiliating, so why does he crave it? He doesn’t want John to stop talking to him in that voice like he’s a dog, he just wants to be able to enjoy it.

 

     He shudders, as John gets the showerhead down, as he gets the soap and the washcloth. What is the matter with him? He wants it, he doesn’t want it, what… what is he supposed to _do_?

 

     John washes his face, and he’s gentle, David doesn’t know what to do when he’s gentle. He’s frozen, letting it happen, same as the first time when he’d been so sure something else would happen. Was today that something else? But John hadn’t even asked David to touch him… He came over to the crate, but that’s the only change from every other time, he… when he came, it… But that’s, he didn’t make David touch him, he never said anything about David ever touching him, and it’s not like he wants…

 

     Are they just going to pretend it never happened? That it’s washed away and so it… Is he supposed to pretend? What is he supposed to do?

 

    “There… that’s better, isn’t it?” John coos. Laughs at him again, but it’s not cruel this time. David glances up, and he doesn’t know how to read John’s expression. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to _do_ in this situation, why did John never make him touch him? And he opens his mouth, but he knows what this look means, knows what it means when John immediately stops him. “Like a dog, David, dogs don’t talk.”

 

    David swallows. Dogs don’t nod, either, he’s not sure if he’s supposed to do that. He doesn’t have a tail to wag. But John’s hand is there, the washcloth still hanging in front of his face, and he leans forward, licks the side of his hand, eyes on him, waiting for John to jerk back, to tell him no again. Does he like this or not like this?

 

    “Oh, that’s a sweet boy. You love me? You love me, boy?”

 

    David whines, licks him again. His skin tastes like soap. _You love me?_ , John asked him that once before, his tone so fucking different then. His hand fisted in David’s shirt, face close, sneering, angry. He’d made it sound ugly then. _You love me?_ , like David was some kind of, like David was… as if he, and as if it was such an awful thing if he did, as if he could, John another man, as if… He remembers the moment so clearly. How John had shoved him away after. How he hadn’t spoken to him the rest of the day and the air around him was heavy with the tension. _You love me?_ , like it was the worst thing David could do to him, worse than if he’d pulled the trigger. Like maybe if he was a man he would have done it and he only couldn’t because this, because John, because love, something wrong, something weak, something dirty...

 

    He doesn’t make it sound like that now.

 

    But then, David’s not supposed to love him as a _man_ , doesn’t love him, not in a cheap, dirty way. He’s supposed to love him as a _dog_ , and that, that’s okay, that’s… pure, that’s not, that’s what they’re supposed to be. He just has to be John’s dog, and then it’s right. It’s right if he loves him like that, it isn’t, it doesn’t mean he wants things, it’s the natural order of things for a dog, it’s not, it doesn’t mean anything about what David’s like when he’s a man. He’s _allowed_ this.

 

    He’s allowed this.

 

    And John bathes him, the way he’d bathe a dog. He touches him everywhere, and it’s not rough, he doesn’t grab him hard or shove him around, he grabs the collar sometimes but he doesn’t yank. He touches him everywhere, but he doesn’t tease him. He soaps up his spent dick along with the rest of him and doesn’t act like there’s anything weird about it. Well, it’s weird, but it’s all fucking weird, he doesn’t act like it’s weirder than feeding him or locking him in a crate or making him crawl on his hands and knees wearing a dog collar, and it’s not. And he doesn’t get hard, maybe that’ll show John this isn’t, it isn’t like that, he isn’t… He just wants to be good, that’s all.

 

    He doesn’t know what he wants anymore, he doesn’t know who he is anymore, but he knows this one thing, he knows he has to be good and then it’s okay.

 

    “Your bed’s still a mess. But I guess that just has to be cleaned up tomorrow.” John says, as he towels him off. That’s human David’s job, tomorrow’s job, washing the blanket, spot-cleaning the cushion, erasing his shame from the bedding in the crate, that he came because of John.

 

    Not because of John, that he came after John, that he came with John watching him, that he came when John had come on his face and while he had his mouth around that thing strapped to the crate, but none of those things, it doesn’t mean they’re related because it all happened the same time.

 

    “I guess if you’re good, you’ll sleep with me tonight, since I’m not cleaning that mess up.” He says, and David licks at him gratefully, gets his arm, can’t quite follow it down to the hand when John is washing him. It would be easier to lean up and reach his face, but that…

 

    No.

 

    He doesn’t think that’s what a good boy does. And he’s going to be a good boy. A good boy gets to sleep with John tonight, and that’s going to be him.

**Author's Note:**

> Man, John's use of 'puppy' is absolutely the opposite of any other ship I've written anything pet play-ish for and these guys are the worst, but this is not the last time I write about them...


End file.
